


Keep Calm and Carry On

by Anarfea



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Gen, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 18:37:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11087574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: “Sir,” she begins, “the air raids aren’t having the effect they hoped. The zom–the infected are going down into the tube stations.”“Yes, I suspected they might. They appear to retain some measure of cunning even though the disease strips them of reason.”“What do you propose we try next?”Mycroft stands and walks towards his fridge. “Ossetra caviar.”





	Keep Calm and Carry On

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fill this tumblr prompt: I wish you would write a fic ... where the power goes out at the secret Mycroft government base mancave and his fridge dies.

The low wail of air-raid sirens not heard in London for generations drones overhead. Mycroft is unconcerned; the mortars aren’t nearly powerful enough to penetrate the bunkers beneath Vauxhall Cross. They’re meant to destroy softer targets–the decaying flesh of the infected. Mycroft refuses to use the fanciful term ‘zombie.’

Overhead, the lights flicker, turning brown before guttering into darkness. The hum of the small refrigerator behind his desk and the power supply to his laptop momentarily go silent, and his screen dims as the laptop switches to battery. But within a minute, the lights come back on as the 200 MW diesel generator supporting the grid kicks in, and the hum of the room’s electrical appliances resumes. For a few weeks at least, there will be power, here and in the state-run shelters.

He permits himself a moment of regret that Sherlock is not in one of them, but knows his brother would be shooting the walls in a matter of days. John Watson is determined to make himself useful in one of the many field hospitals on the surface, and Sherlock is equally determined to stay at his side. At least they permitted Mycroft to secure Rosie, who is the subject of one of his many CCTV feeds. She sits sullenly in his quarters, knitting needles clicking away on a jumper as she chews a strand of blond hair and listens to BBC radio. The radio, too, will go silent when the generators run out of fuel, if the stations aren’t overrun before.

There’s a knock at his door, and then Anthea lets herself in without waiting for a reply. “Sir,” she begins, “the air raids aren’t having the effect they hoped. The zom–the infected are going down into the tube stations.”

“Yes, I suspected they might. They appear to retain some measure of cunning even though the disease strips them of reason.”

“What do you propose we try next?”

Mycroft stands and walks towards his fridge. “Ossetra caviar.”

“Pardon?”

He bends down and unplugs it. In the grand scheme of things, the amount of electricity it consumes is insignificant, but it’s a matter of optics. Shared sacrifice and all that.

He opens the fridge and removes the jar along with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, setting the former on his desk before fetching a corkscrew from a drawer to open the later. Smoke pours from the bottle when he pops the cork, but only a little of the precious liquid overspills the neck of the bottle.

“I was saving this for when they discovered a vaccine.” He fetches two chilled flutes from the fridge and sets them on his desk, pouring for Anthea and himself. “But the caviar will spoil if we don’t eat it soon and we ought to pair it with something.”

Anthea stares at him as though he’s turning as he fetches a ceramic spoon and water crackers. Toast made from good bread or blinis would be preferable, but the crackers will have to do.

Mycroft spoons a dollop of the golden eggs onto a cracker and hands it to Anthea with the glass of champagne, which she instinctively holds by the base even if she doesn’t stop staring. He prepares another wafer for himself, stopping to inhale the scent of the bubbles popping in the flute before biting into it. The taste is sharp and fragrant on his tongue. He chews slowly, letting it spread over his soft palette.

Anthea finishes her bite and washes it down with a sip of champagne. “Thank you kindly, but what do you actually propose we do?”

Mycroft shrugs and raises his glass. “Keep calm and carry on.”


End file.
